**Chapter 278: Luca's Dilemma and the Blank Paper**

It was the weekend, and Luca stayed home instead of going to the set.

With some free time, he needed to seriously think about what to do next. After a period of self-torture, the recent scenes had improved significantly compared to the beginning. Whether it was his actions, lines, emotions, or the impact, everything was much more on point.

He was an experienced screenwriter and a frequent moviegoer. He could tell if a performance was good or not.

The recent scenes were good.

But the bald director's silence and perpetually unsatisfied expression turned the slight sense of satisfaction Luca felt into thin air.

What should he do next?

He didn't know.

In the early stages, after each day of filming, he would watch the recordings at night and clearly see the problems.

But not anymore. Recently, he hadn't felt any breakthroughs during performances, nor could he identify any issues.

The recordings from the last few days were almost identical, with no changes. Continuing to act this way would just be repeating the same scenes over and over. What's the point of that?

"Headache!"

He squatted in the wardrobe, pinching his brow. He hadn't slept well these past few days and felt mentally foggy. Sometimes he even had migraines—it was all too exhausting. He felt like he couldn't hold on much longer.

Give up?

Impossible.

Giving up would be a win for that damn bald guy.

Not giving up, then maybe changing the director?

But they had a prior agreement: to change directors, they'd first need to dissolve their working relationship, which would be a very troublesome matter.

"This collaboration is a huge loss!"

Luca tapped his forehead, staring at the dark wardrobe. He lay down straight and began practicing his coffin scene.

"When will the movie be finished?"

In the afternoon at the dining table, Kate gently asked.

"I don't know."

Luca took a bite of the meat pie and said, "Old Burbank is quite a headache. I have no idea what he wants, what his standards are. Filming this movie feels like playing charades."

He shook his head, completely unsure how to describe this filming experience.

From China to Hollywood, he had met many directors and knew that a lot of famous directors had their quirks. But directors as peculiar as Burbank were rare.

"If you're not happy, why keep going? Last year, we earned what most people can't earn in a lifetime. With that money, we could just relax and enjoy life.

If you enjoy being a celebrity, you could take on some easy, fun roles. If that's not enough, we could invest in our own movies. You don't need to push yourself so hard.

You've lost a lot of weight lately."

Kate caressed his cheek, touching his jaw and cheekbones. Seeing him so exhausted every day, with his pale face, she couldn't help but feel a little regretful. Maybe she shouldn't have encouraged him to pursue stardom back then.

"Kate, I'm fine!"

Luca smiled and held her hand. "Making movies is a fun thing. How about I write a script and have you star as the lead actress?"

"No thanks. I don't want to end up like you, spending every day hiding in a wardrobe and making myself look so pathetic. You're not filming; you're torturing yourself!"

Kate twisted his ear while giving him her blessings.

Luca burst out laughing. "Every job is like that. Isn't modeling a form of self-torture too? You practice awkward catwalks, poses, dieting—especially dieting. It's the most torturous of all. You can't even eat something good."

He grabbed a coconut shrimp and fed it to Kate. "How's it taste? I got it from Lanches."

"Meh. The shrimp isn't fresh, and the spice is too overpowering. Not as good as my cooking."

Kate tasted it and dismissed it with disdain.

"Well, of course, no ordinary chef can compare to you. Try this one."

Luca seized the moment to feed her more slices of roasted meat, sausages, and cod, asking her to rate them.

Kate shot him a glance. "Are you trying to turn me into a fatty?"

"Yup. You've been flying all over the place recently, and you've lost a lot of weight. Eat some meat to regain your strength."

"Fine, I'll gain some weight, and so will you. How about we get fat together?"

Kate smirked, grabbed a piece of pig ear, and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Sounds great!"

The two began a feeding contest, exchanging bites until four plates of Brazilian food vanished from the table.

After dinner, Kate, worried about gaining weight, dragged him to the beach for a walk, building sandcastles, playing soccer, and even checking out the other women, only returning home after dark.

They spent most of the weekend having fun together.

The next day, Luca returned to the set, full of energy, greeting everyone.

He hoped today would be different. He hoped the bald director would finally say something, perhaps tell him he was acting well or poorly, and offer suggestions on how to improve.

But he was disappointed. Just like on day one, the set remained the same today.

The diligent but quiet lighting technician, the invisible sound crew, the rough makeup artist, and the cameraman who always mumbled behind the machines.

And then there was Burbank, the sick old man, staring at the monitor for half a month without saying a word.

Seeing their behavior, Luca suddenly realized these people didn't have it easy either.

But so what?

He had it rough too.

Every day he had to lie in that small, enclosed, suffocating coffin, reciting those dull lines, controlling his facial muscles, and performing the same monotonous scenes.

The repetition numbed him, yet he still pushed himself to act—

"Hello, 911—hello, I've been buried alive."

"You have to save me, I can't breathe."

"Sir—I'm buried in a coffin, please help me."

At 5:30 PM, another day ended.

It was another fruitless day. He didn't even bother watching the previous day's footage.

The result would be the same.

Even the smallest expressions were nearly identical. He felt like he couldn't push forward anymore.

It was time to have another talk with the old man.

"Director Burbank."

At the studio entrance, he called out to the old man.

Burbank stopped, looked over without any expression, giving off a vibe that he had no interest in talking.

Luca shrugged. "Director Burbank, you've seen the recordings over the past few days. You should know that my performance has plateaued. Continuing to act like this is pointless. Do you have any suggestions?"

"..."

The bald director remained silent.

Luca fumed. "Director Burbank, are you seriously not going to say anything? Do you want to watch us endlessly repeat these scenes, wasting time, wasting life?"

"My time is more precious than yours."

Burbank responded coldly.

Luca knew this. Burbank had been diagnosed with lymphoma at 38, and for the past 19 years, he had been hovering on the brink of death.

Luca sighed. "You're right, Director Burbank, your time is precious. So why can't you just point out what's wrong with my performance? If you'd just say something, I'd fix it, and we'd save a lot of time."

Before Burbank could respond, Luca added, "I need your guidance—not because I'm dissatisfied with my own acting, but because I need a professional, an outsider's perspective, to point out my flaws."

"You're satisfied with your performance?"

Burbank asked.

"Yes."

Luca confirmed.

"100 percent?"

"...Yes."

Luca nodded.

"But I'm not satisfied."

Burbank gave him a glance and walked away.

"Director Burbank, can you at least tell me what you're not satisfied with? If you don't say anything, how can anyone know what kind of movie you want?"

Luca chased after him.

"..."

Burbank didn't respond, getting straight into his car and leaving.

"Fuck!"

Luca was furious. This old man was beyond frustrating.

Filmmaking was a team effort, yet the old man dumped all the pressure onto him. How was he supposed to bear it?

"Here!"

Just as he was about to leave, the assistant director, José, came over and handed him a piece of paper.

Luca was stunned. What was this about?

Could it be the old man's feedback?

Excited, he unfolded the paper, but there was nothing on it. He looked closely—nothing at all.

"José, what does this mean?"

"..."

José glanced around. "Your performance is only separated from success by a thin piece of paper. Now you just need to figure out how to break through it."

Luca furrowed his brow. Only a piece of paper? That sounded a bit mystical.

"It's what the teacher said."

José got into the car.

"Did he say how to break through that paper?"

Luca quickly asked.

"You have to figure it out yourself."

Vroom—the car drove off.

Luca stood there, holding the blank paper, utterly bewildered. How was he supposed to figure it out? Was this some kind of spiritual enlightenment?

(End of Chapter)